Sound
by September Watson
Summary: Most people know Sherlock Holmes by his face, his coat, his presence. I don't know any of that. I know his voice, the sentences he says, the police sirens. I've never seen him in my life.
1. Call 1

**So, I was lying awake one night, and this idea came to me. Again, really shouldn't have started this while CWPFAW isn't done, but it'll be gone if I don't.**

* * *

When I get Skype for the first time, I don't think much about it. It's not like I have anyone to talk to. Harry's in rehab, my army mates are either dead or still at the fort, and who would want to be friends with a guy that has PTSD, shaky hands, and a limp that has absolutely nothing to do with the actual injury? Believe me, I was better off without the program.

My flat is barren and virtually empty: a chair, a table, a bed, and a lamp taking residence more than me. An army pension doesn't get me much, a bit of food and this dump of a place. Most of the time, I try not to be here. I walk around London _trying_ to ignore the pain in my leg and people's stares because I can't, really, can't pretend I don't hear what they're thinking. They pity me, and I hate it, but it's better than the empty flat with nothing but my gun to keep me company. The stares or the gun? Most times, I don't know which to subject myself to.

I'm not exactly healthily-minded. I liked the danger Afghanistan provided and the opportunity to save lives, but when that was taken from me, I'm left with nothing to think about. My head is full of nightmares, my soul is stained with blood, but what can I do about it? Nothing. I hate sitting around without anything to do, without a job, without a shag, without a _friend._ I need the friend more than the job or shag, but since I'm a respectable male, it's better to let people think I don't. Danger, friend, _nothing._ If someone told me I had gone mad, I would believe them.

Funny. I never imagined I'd end up here.

My laptop sitting on the counter as I brush my teeth, I open up my new program, Skype, and briefly contemplate typing in a random name and seeing their surprise when they notice this strange man talking to them. Most would probably cut me off immediately, like 'oh creepy stalker guy that looks like an army officer', but I'm a captain, one, and for two, I'm just kind of desperate for contact. Not a stalker. Big difference.

I close the door to my flat and make sure the key for it is on the same chain as my dog tags. I've never really been the kind of person to carry their key around their neck, but I got used to the dog tags, and it was convenient. Wearing the key is like having a killed mate's tag jingling with my own, like I'm carrying dead weight. Fair enough. That's what the cane's for.

The streets are as busy as London mornings usually are, with the sunshine acting the extra. I smile up at the sky, almost bumping into someone, and then quickly limp off to the coffee shop. I haven't managed to find too many good places, but this little café is the only thing I look forward to, day after day.

"Mornin', John," the barista calls. Liz. She's so nice to me, and I really can't figure out why. "Coffee, two cream, one sugar, and a raspberry scone?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answer, passing over three pounds. Liz laughs at the endearment and gives me the change, beginning to faff about in the back with the coffee machine. I sit where I usually do, the chair nearest the window, and wait. A lot of different people show up here: a brown-haired, mousy woman that sometimes comes in her scrubs; an older, built man with a gun holster on his belt; a dark-skinned, curly-haired woman with a sort of vengeance in her eyes if the barista gets her order wrong. I wonder what their lives are like.

Every once in a while, I'll see a very posh man walk in, carrying an umbrella. His voice is posh too, the kind of voice more suited to French or Italian than English. He always stares at everyone else, as if he's figuring out their lives from just one look. I can't do that, but I've heard him mutter observations under his breath. He's interesting, but he's got a wedding ring. Taken.

"Coffee with two cream and one sugar and a raspberry scone!" I walk to the front counter and grab my things.

"Thanks, Liz."

"No problem. Hey, how's the date search?"

I shake my head. "As non-existent as ever. It's like they're hiding from me."

"Sorry, sweetie." Liz smiles ruefully. "You know if I didn't play for the other team, we'd be going out every day of the week."

"Yeah, after I came home from my invisible workplace." I smiled too. "I guess I just have to keep looking."

"Keep trying, John. You'll find someone." I nod, and sit back down to enjoy my scone. The best scones are the ones made with the secret ingredient that Liz still won't tell me about. It's not like I know anything about cooking!

I had taken my laptop with me to the coffee shop, and so I open it up and stare at the empty blog screen for a while. My therapist, Ella, says it'll help me, writing about what happens to me, but here's the thing: _nothing happens to me_. I can't exactly write if there's nothing to write about, now can I?

Dr. John H. Watson. My name, printed across the top of the screen. I don't remember why I put the H. there, since I sometimes pretend I don't have a middle name to save myself the embarrassment _Hamish_ causes. Maybe I should have put the rank of Captain instead of doctor. It's not like it matters, anyway.

I close the blog tab and open up Skype again. What should my username be? I type JohnWatson. Nice and simple. I use it for all my dating profile usernames, too. Why change a good thing? The password...maybe Fusiliers5. Not everyone knows that about me, plus, how many people can spell Fusiliers while typing fast? I fail at least fifty percent of the time.

Well, now that that's done, who should I Skype? Again, same dilemma with no friends, no job, and no shags. I laugh a little, and the person in the table near me probably thinks I'm crazy. I'm not, I'm just a really unlucky bastard. I don't think I'm crazy just yet.

I close my laptop and put it in the briefcase I sling over my shoulder to hang over my functional leg. It's time to go. Any longer and people wonder what I'm doing there so late in the day. The park looks nice, so I drag myself out of the seat and through the door to find a bench.

It is November, which means there shouldn't be sunshine, but there is somehow. As I limp around to find an unoccupied bench, a person calls out my name. "John! John Watson!"

"Mike Stamford," I say, slightly amused. I know him from doctor's training at St. Bart's. Well, _knew_ him. I don't know anyone anymore.

"Heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at! What happened?"

"Got shot." I point to the leg.

Mike looks a bit sorry he asked. "How's the living lately?"

"An army pension isn't much, but I manage. Besides, who would want me for a flatmate?"

"Ah, you couldn't leave London if you tried." He stays silent for a moment. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Really? Who was the first?"

* * *

When we get to St. Bart's, I see the mousy woman again. "Hello, Molly," Mike says. "She's a forensic pathologist," he explains to me.

"Hello," she replies quietly. For some reason, she's carrying a riding crop. "Are you looking for him?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Is he gone already?"

Molly nods. "He told me to text him in twenty minutes if his experiment was running, but he's been busy. Contacting the entire Yard press conference, not-working on the serial suicides case. I don't know when he'll be back, sorry."

Mike smiles. "That's alright. We'll catch him next time. By the way, this is Dr. John Watson." I shake her hand.

"Pleased to meet you." I see her every day when she comes to get coffee. And yet, we've never met before.

"So, I'll try to catch him later. Would you tell him?"

Molly grins. "I will. Nice meeting you, again."

"You too."

Mike turns to me. "He'll end up contacting you himself, just to see what all the fuss is about."

* * *

So, one bit of excitement in an otherwise inconsequential day. I know that a man who solves crimes probably has at least a girlfriend, if not a flatmate.

Here I am again, staring at the Skype screen. When did I buy this anyway? Was it yesterday? Two days ago?

It's about 7 pm, so I heat up some ramen in the microwave. I do like ramen, but I really shouldn't be eating it every night. The sky is dark, smoggy. The usual. Nothing changes for me. I should get used to it.

I watch the BBC for a little while. Reruns, but it's fun to know the lines as well as the actors do. My ramen doesn't last forever, and eventually I throw the plastic container in the rubbish bin. The part that hits me the most is that I could survive like this for a very long time. Survive, not live, but I gave up on living a while ago. The nightmares would only get worse, the gun would only get more tempting, the skies would only get duller, but I'm very good at survival.

I hear sirens out the window. They're loud, and obnoxious, but I think something's different about these. Suddenly, my Skype screen starts ringing. Who on Earth could that be? I've said there's really no one for me to talk to. The ringing gets more insistent, like they need me right this minute, but I don't answer. I reassure myself that I could take them down if they were dangerous and press the Answer button.

"Hello?" I say. God, I look terrible. My small part of the screen has dark-circled eyes and some hair sticking up in the back. I pat it down. There isn't any picture for the person calling me. The username is SherlockHolmes. Interesting name, if that's even their name. "Hello?"

"Oh, I did press the Call button," a deep voice says. I hear a lot of movement, sirens, clothing rustling. "Dr. John Watson, am I correct?"

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" I ask.

"Well, your name isn't Harry Watson, and you aren't divorced, so I assume you are who your username says you are."

I stare at the screen is disbelief. "And who are you?"

"I thought my username was clear enough. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. And if you'll excuse me, it's Christmas!"

"What do you mean?"

He sighs. "Must I explain everything? Three serial suicides and then a fourth with a note? It's Christmas!"

I smile. "Well, don't let me keep you."

"Mrs. Hudson!" he calls, further away from the screen. "No tea for me." He walks away from me, I can hear it, but he comes back. "You're a doctor. An army doctor. You've seen blood, grave injuries."

"Many, far too many actually."

"You want to see some more?"

I look at the blank screen for a second, barely thinking. "Oh, God yes."

* * *

Sherlock carries his phone with him, turning his camera so I can see the house where the newest serial suicide victim was found. He tells me the front camera on his mobile has never worked, which is why I couldn't see anything. We get stopped by the curly-haired woman, who is apparently a policewoman.

"You can't bring him in here," she says, folding her arms. "Who is he, anyway?"

"A colleague," Sherlock answers, pushing past her.

"Since when do _you_ have a colleague?" She turns to me, moving to take the phone from him, but he avoids her skillfully. I almost have to laugh. "Did he stalk your social accounts?"

"No, Donovan, I assure you I didn't. John, you have every right to ignore her."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor," I say, since she was going to bother us more if I didn't.

Donovan shakes her head disapprovingly. Pulling a communicator from her belt, she speaks into it, "The Freak's here." I don't see Sherlock wince, but the picture rotates a few degrees to the right. Another person, wearing a light blue, scrub-like uniform that covers his body, approaches from the entrance to the house, looking just about as happy to see us as Donovan.

"Having you on a crime scene is bad enough, but now you have an electronic tagalong? This shouldn't be allowed!"

The policeman from the café comes over, wearing the same uniform, and moves the angry man out of the way, but not before Sherlock says scathingly, "And it shouldn't be allowed to have imbeciles such as yourself near bodies." He steps closer to the man. "You're wearing deodorant. It's for men."

"Of course it's for men!"

"I smell Donovan's wearing the same kind, meaning she didn't have a chance to go home after your little escapade. Washing your floors, by the state of her knees. Or was it something else?" Sherlock leaves them, mouths gaping, following the older policeman.

"You shouldn't have done that," the man says exasperatedly. "They'll be after you even more now."

"They deserve it. John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, Dr. John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," I say. "I would shake your hand, but I'm kind of inside a mobile."

"I can see that." Lestrade turns to Sherlock. Well, I think so. I still can't see him. "Is he good?"

"Yes." Sherlock has no wavering in his voice. Why would he trust me after knowing me for maybe a half hour? I feel really lucky.

"Good. If you trust him, I trust him. Bring him upstairs. You have five minutes."

"That's more than enough time."

* * *

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	2. Call 2

I look around the room as best I can, and notice how out of place the dead woman is. Bright pink clothes, manicured nails, lots of jewelry. And this place: dingy, high-up, quiet. I can't imagine many people seeing a dead body here very quickly, maybe someone homeless.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asks.

"Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards," Lestrade answers.

"Is that all?" The DI nods. Sherlock huffs and walks further into the room.

No one says anything for a few seconds, Lestrade looking perplexed, me still inside the mobile with not the greatest view, and Sherlock cocking his head slightly to the side. The silence becomes almost awkward (if Sherlock knows what awkward is) and he breaks it by saying, "Shut up."

"What? What was I saying?" Lestrade protests. _Wasn't saying anything_ , I think.

"You were thinking, and it's annoying." With that little statement, Sherlock takes a few steps toward her. He moves the phone so I can see the word _Rache_ carved into the floorboard. Her index finger nail is scratched, probably from the act of writing the word. Sherlock stays there for a moment longer, running a few of his gloved fingers over the woman's coat, and then the underside of her coat's collar. In her pocket, he finds an umbrella, which he throws somewhere behind him that I can't see.

Sherlock then takes a magnifying lens from his own pocket and inspects Jennifer's left hand again. He pays particular attention to a ring, a dull, golden ring that I assume is from her marriage. Sherlock removes the ring from her finger and stares at it for barely a second before putting it back.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks, out of my range of sight, as usual. I'm wondering if the whole Skype thing is really going to work out, since I can only see what Sherlock moves the mobile for me to see.

"Not much," Sherlock replies, but I hear a smile in his voice.

"She's German," some person, probably Anderson, interjects. " _Rache._ German for revenge."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock says dismissively. I watch, slightly vindicated, as he closes the door on the man. I really don't like Anderson, after only a few minutes of meeting him.

"So, she's German?" the DI wonders.

"No, but she's from out of town though. John?"

"Uh, yeah?" I ask. I don't know why he's talking to me now, I'm not really part of this whole thing.

"I need to shut you down for just a moment. You'll still have audio, and I'll be right back."

"Okay?" But the picture's gone before I finish the word. I look around my 'flat', almost surprised to see myself in it, instead of the crime scene. I wish I was there, so I could be a doctor without the picture getting in the way. I hear a few clicks on Sherlock's mobile, like he's looking something up. What would he look up on the Internet in the middle of a crime scene? Scratch that, what would he _need_ to look up? Sherlock knows quite a bit from what I've heard, literally.

"She intended to stay in London for one night, before returning to Cardiff. Obvious," he says, the clicking stopped.

"Sorry, obvious?" I ask, louder than I need to. The lack of picture is getting to me a little.

"But what about the message?" Lestrade adds.

"John, would you like to take a look?" Sherlock turns the picture back on so I can see the body again.

"We have a whole team of people that can 'take a look'."

"They won't work with me," Sherlock points out. I can understand that, he is pretty...blunt.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Lestrade isn't budging, but what can I do to mess up a crime scene while _in a phone?_

"Yes," he concedes. "But because you need me."

The DI sighs. "Yes, I do." Under his breath, he mutters, "God help me."

"Alright, John. I'm lowering you. Tell me if you need a different angle." Now, this strikes me as strange. From what I know of Sherlock, why would he take the time to let me get all the angles I need? I'm slowing him down, I know it.

Of course, I don't say any of that aloud.

I hear Lestrade open and close the door again, leaving I think. Sherlock carefully puts me close to Jennifer's hands. "What am I doing here?" I ask instead of that other thing I was going to say.

"Helping me make a point." That actually seems in character.

"Like this?"

"This is fun." And there is a mirth sparkling in his voice.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," I admonish.

I can almost feel him shrug. Must be a learned move; Sherlock doesn't seem the type to shrug. "A sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." _I_ hope he can see me rolling my eyes. I look at the body carefully, noting its coloration, look, staring at her hand for a moment.

"Asphyxiation," I say. Sherlock turns up the volume so Lestrade can hear me. It feels like Sherlock has mood swings, behavioral swings, like a teenager. "Probably choked on her own vomit, passed out. Could have been a seizure, drug use."

"It was drugs, haven't you read the papers?" Sherlock began a long explanation of the dead woman: her career (the media), her stay (in London for one night), her marriage (over ten years, unhappily), and her state of affairs (literally, since she was a serial adulterer). I say he's brilliant once, and then apologize. He probably doesn't want to hear things from the peanut gallery while he's trying to work.

"Obvious," he finishes.

"Not to me," I point out.

I feel Sherlock's questioning gaze, even though I can't see him. "What is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring." Funny, _boring_ sounded like a word he says all the time. And 'funny little brains'? I'm not an idiot!

Sherlock then explains what the coat had to do with putting me on audio. The weather. Seriously.

"Fantastic!" I say.

"Do you know you do that aloud?" Sherlock asks, still not having turned me away from the dead body.

"Sorry."

"No," he says, as if he wasn't expecting to say that. "It's fine. Where's her suitcase?"

"There wasn't a suitcase," Lestrade says. At least his answer has turned me away from Jennifer.

"Find it, she has a phone or an organizer, and find out who Rachel is!" I think that shout was to the other part of the forensics team.

"Rachel?" Well, at least I don't feel stupid, asking all the questions. "She was writing Rachel?"

" _No,_ she was writing an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel!" I almost have to laugh because I didn't know Sherlock knew how to use sarcasm. Then again, laughing while a dead person's just lying on the floor would be a bit not good. "Where's the case?" he asks again, kneeling by the woman. Seriously, I would rather have a different view.

"There wasn't a case."

Sherlock suddenly stands up again. I feel like I'm on a bit of a roller coaster. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade's voice sounds more exasperated. I'm pretty sure Sherlock and I have overstayed our welcome, but he's the only one technically getting kicked out. I'm still in my flat.

Sherlock begins to run down the stairs, shouting about the case. Lestrade asks why. "They take the poison themselves, chew and swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!"

"Oh, okay. And?!" Lestrade calls down.

"It's murder. All of them, I don't know how. The signs, they're killings, _serial_ killings." Sherlock claps his hands together, but the effect is kind of ruined since the mobile with me in it is in one of his hands. "I love a serial killer, always something to look forward to."

"What?"

Sherlock sighs, completely the exasperated one now. "Her case! Where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case!" He turns to me. "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot her case was in the car..."

"She could've checked into a hotel, left her case there?" I wonder.

"No, look at the state of her hair. She color-coordinates her hair and her lipstick, she wouldn't have left the hotel looking like..." He pauses, gaze wandering. Then he takes a breath and says, "Oh. Ah!"

"Sherlock?" I ask.

"Serial killers are tough," he mutters. "You have to wait until they make a mistake!"

"Uh, what mistake?!" Lestrade shouts.

"Pink!"

Sherlock runs out of the house, under the police tape, and into the street. "John, I need to do something, I'll be back when it's done. My number is on this piece of paper..." He shows me a piece of paper (is that from a newspaper?) and I write down the number on it. "If I need you, I'll text."

"Why not call?"

"I don't call when I can text. It's easier and less personal." I nod. That's the Sherlock Holmes I've come to know in...is it already two hours? "Goodbye."

"Wait-" And there's Donovan.

"Hello, again."

"Hi," I say awkwardly, since Sherlock refuses to talk.

"You're not his friend," she says, like she's trying to figure me out. "He doesn't have friends. So what are you?"

"Um, I'm nobody. Nobody important." I can feel Sherlock shaking his head, as if he either wants this conversation to be over or...yeah, just that.

"Bit of advice, stay away from him."

"Why?" I ask. This is getting annoying. He's not a Freak, he's not horrible, so why are they treating him like he is?

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything-"

"Not true," Sherlock mutters.

"He likes it," Donovan continues. "He gets off on it." _I highly doubt that,_ I think. "The weirder the crime, the more he gets off, and you know what? One day, that won't be enough. We'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"Why would he do that?" I'm seriously getting tired of this. I hope Sherlock can hear it, because Donovan obviously doesn't get the memo. Plus, he's standing right there, and most people are better at talking _behind_ over people's backs.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

"Oh, this again," Sherlock huffs. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research." He paces away from her and ends the Skype call, and I'm left with nothing but a busy tone.

* * *

I leave my flat, trying to get the sitting portion of my day (which was most of it) out of my legs. Or leg, because only one of them really works. Not far from my flat, I hear a telephone ring. One of the telephone boxes, so I couldn't figure out why it was ringing. I walked past three more, and when someone tried to answer them, they stopped ringing.

Finally, I limp into the last red box and pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"There's a camera to your left, do you see it?"

I look left, and I do see a camera that turns away as soon as I look at it. "Who is this? Who's speaking?"

The man doesn't answer the question. "There is another camera to your right and behind you, do you see them?" I look, and I see them and I tell the man I do.

"How are you doing this?" I ask.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson." So, the creepy man that has access to CCTV cameras knows my name. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." Yes, that a stalker with assets knows where I am and is kidnapping me.

I get into the car. The woman next to me, 'not-Anthea', rejects my advances, so we sit in silence the rest of the way to wherever we're going.

When the car pulls up in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, and there's a person standing in front of it that looks exactly like the posh man from the café, I really want to scream. "Have a seat, John." You know, he has no right to know my name. I don't know him, so he has the advantage. I like knowing what I'm up against.

"You know, I've got a phone. Instead of kidnapping me, you could, maybe, phone me? On my phone? That's what they're for, you know."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence, this place."

"Or, we could meet in that café. Also pretty discreet, especially since I never see anyone vaguely Sherlock-looking there."

The man scoffs. "You don't even know what he looks like."

"Male, probably well-off. British." So what if I don't know anything about him? I know his voice, the way he speaks. That's enough, isn't it?

"Yes, so perhaps 25 percent of the country. Quite a narrow reach." What is it with posh guys being sarcastic today? "Sit down, your lg must be hurting you."

"No."

The man smiles at me. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," I counter. And he doesn't. Just a stalker in a suit, I've dealt with much worse in one minute in Afghanistan.

He laughs. "The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"What do you want from me?" This is just stupid. He kidnaps me all the way here for a synonym lesson?

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"He Skyped me by accident and I've known him for maybe two hours."

"And since two hours ago he took his phone to a crime scene with you in it and let you watch him work, and let you work. How many people do you think that happens to?"

"I haven't exactly moved in with him," I say, a slight chuckle in my voice.

"If you were I'd expect a happy announcement by the end of the week," the man mutters.

"Who are you?" I ask, getting a bit fed up of all this secretive business.

"An interested party."

"Not friends, then?"

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having: an enemy."

I huff. "Really?"

"If you were to ask him, his _arch-_ enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

I roll my eyes. "Well, thank God you're above all that. Now, what do you want?"

"Information. I am willing to pay you a reasonable sum of money."

"Why?"

"Because you are not a wealthy man."

"I meant, why do you need the information? I believe that's none of your business."

The man looks seriously at me. "It could be and is." He pauses. "I worry about him. Constantly. And you shouldn't mention this to him. We have a rather difficult relationship."

"I can see why. Sorry, but no." Someone texts me. I look down to see it's Sherlock.

 _Go back to your laptop. I need you to send a message for me. Could be dangerous. SH_

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm just not interested." I begin to walk away. How pointless was that? I'm not going to be Sherlock's personal stalker, what kind of crap did that man grow up on?

"People have warned you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes," he calls. "I can see by your left hand that won't be possible. It shakes normally, doesn't it?"

I turn to face him and he walks forward. "Hold out your hand." I do, but not because I'm bending to his will or anything. When I look down again, my hand isn't shaking. "When most people run around London, they only see the streets and shops and cars. When you're with Sherlock Holmes, you see the danger. You're in danger right now, and your hand isn't shaking. What does that mean?"

"Ah, nothing."

"No. It means you need to fire your therapist." What? "She thinks the memories of the war trigger it, but you're in danger right now and your hand is perfectly still. You aren't haunted by the war, Dr. Watson." He smiles. "You miss it."

* * *

 **Sorry this chapter was so long, but I was quoting the show through most of it, and I wanted to at least get through this part. The last portion of the serial suicides is third. Thanks for the follows and favorites! Read + review!**


	3. Call 3

**Sorry it took so very long, but my other story has been commanding quite a bit of attention lately.**

* * *

 _"You aren't haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. And Sherlock Holmes is the war that you need to survive."_

* * *

I return to my tiny little flat in the car Sherlock's archenemy sent. I still think that's entirely ridiculous, but he's Sherlock, and Sherlock is completely unconventional, in the best way.

I smile. I have a call to make.

"Sherlock?" I ask, his screen popping up blank as usual. "Sherlock? Is anyone home?"

I hear a sigh, a very turned-on sounding sigh. "What the hell?" I wonder, blushing a little too brightly on the screen for my taste. God, I needed to get a grip. Male, not-gay, looking for a girlfriend. I should have been Skype buddies with Liz.

"Nicotine patches. It's impossible to sustain a proper smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." Sherlock's K clicked, and damn, it is a little much for my fragile, very suggestible mind. That man's voice could be in a commercial for porn and everyone would watch it, illegal or not.

"Good news for breathing," I say, ironically a bit breathless.

"Oh breathing, breathing's boring." He flips the camera so I can see his arm.

"Three patches?"

"It's a three-patch problem." He stays silent for a moment, moving his camera around, but I still can't see him. His flat is homey, really cluttered, and not too small, but it feels like someone else should live there. Sherlock really can't live by himself, can he? He seems too lonely to do that.

"Sherlock, what did you need me for? It must have been important."

He doesn't answer, only breathes softly. "Sherlock?" Another moment passes. I want to see what he looks like right now, probably with his eyes closed, hands by his sides, just letting air in and out. But I don't know.

"Oh, yes. I need you to send a text for me."

"You could use your phone," I say, shaken out of my weird imaginings.

"The number is too easily recognized. It's on the website. Mrs. Hudson's phone is a landline that can't send texts."

I roll my eyes. "Is this about the case?"

"Yes, her case, the killer took the case, first big mistake. There's a number on my desk, enter it into your phone and send a text."

"Sherlock, you're forgetting that I can't get to your desk without being actually in your flat." I smile; he's so funny. Only Sherlock would forget I'm not really there.

"Dear God, must I do everything around here?" I assume Sherlock stands up since the phone rises up several feet and goes forward, zooming in on a phone number. His desk has paper all over it, I think fondly. He's brilliant.

"There now, can you see it?" he asks.

"Yes, Sher, I can see it. What text do you need me to send?"

The mobile in his hand jolts a little. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

He doesn't speak for a minute, and then replies, "No one's ever called me that. Or any nickname."

"Well, it's about time, dammit. You're too lonely for your own good, that's why you called me in the first place," I answer him frankly.

I can't see his face, so I don't know how he's reacting. "How did you...?"

"Sher, I'm a doctor and a soldier. I know things that lots of people don't know because they don't want to face themselves. Even if I can't face the person."

Sherlock somehow stands the phone up, camera still flipped so I can't look at him, and moves his hand in front of the screen, so I can watch what he's doing. He...waves at me. He waves his hand, like he's saying hello. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm letting you face me." I stare at his hand as hard as I can, reading him, watching his fingers move, and it _transfixes_ me. His little burn scars, his small cuts and scrapes, his long tapering fingers meant to play an instrument, his palms so big, bigger than mine for sure. Sherlock is just...like me. Scarred and lonely and an adrenaline junkie, just like me. Beautiful.

"God," I whisper. "God, I wish I knew you in real life."

"You do, John. More than anyone else." He pauses. "The text I need is, _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Meet me at 22 Northumberland St._ Do you have that?"

I look down at my own phone and quickly type out what he said. "Yes."

Sherlock draws a J in the air with his pinky finger. "Thank you."

"What was that?"

"Your name. Even though you can't see my face, this is what it's saying."

I smile. "So who was the text message for?"

"The killer, from Jennifer Wilson."

And suddenly, my mouth is gaping open. "I texted a killer for you?"

"Yes, you did." I could feel him grin widely.

"So what now?"

"Now, you and I wait for him on opposite sides of the street to see if we can catch him." Sher pauses. "Come with me?"

I touch my hand to the screen. "Always."

* * *

Sherlock's on the other side of Northumberland St., sitting in Angelo's restaurant. I can't bring myself to go to him, and I don't know why. I should be able to walk across the street and meet him, but I just can't. I want to see him, I want to put a face to the name. It's just...hard.

"Sher? What's it look like out there?" I ask. I called him on his phone instead of Skyping him because he said it would be easier to chase the criminal if we could easily end the call.

"Do you see that cab?"

I look out the window of the office building I'm in. "Yeah. You think he's in there?"

"I know he's in there." I watch the cab carefully, stepping outside and walking towards it. I pull my Sig Sauer out of my jacket pocket and check that I loaded it before coming here. "What do you want me to do?"

He doesn't say anything, except for, "Wait."

I don't move for several minutes, and the cab doesn't either. Well, until it does. "Should I just keep waiting, or..."

"John, we need to go after it."

"Already there," I say, running as fast as I can to overtake the cab.

The streets are dark, and the cab is fast, dammit! I keep up my original pace for around five blocks, taking detours through alleys and side streets until I see the thing again. That cabbie is fucking terrible! The routes he takes! Seriously! I dodge a couple motorcyclists, and manage to avoid a lot of trashbins, fences, and unsavory characters. They probably aren't used to seeing a man in a jumper with a gun in his hand running through the streets of London like a madman.

When I finally catch up with the cab, another dark figure hits the side of the vehicle. "Police, open up!" I turn away, looking at the cab driver instead of the other man Sherlock's gaze is on. Our gazes would meet if I looked at him, and that would be the end of John Watson. "No," Sherlock mutters, "teeth, tan, just flown in from LA, Santa Monica."

The cabbie had gray hair, blue eyes, and pictures of his kids on the dashboard of the cab. I can't help but feel that there is something wrong with him, but Sherlock finishes his deductions. "Welcome to London."

I don't follow Sherlock for a few meters yet, calling him when he's far enough away. "Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no."

"Just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Yes."

I stare at the ground for a second, and then begin to laugh. "Welcome to London?"

Sher laughs too, and I can't see any figure of him anymore as he turns a corner. "Got your breath back? That man was suspicious about us."

"I'm ready when you are, Sher."

* * *

When I get back to my flat, I Skype my new best friend. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Who the hell are you talking to?" an annoying and familiar voice asks.

"I'm talking to the doctor in my phone that helped me with Jennifer Wilson's body," Sherlock replies, sounding quite peeved. "Say hello, John."

"Hello. I'll have you know, that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quips. I laugh and he laughs with me, ignoring the other horrible people in his flat.

"Not just me, all my other army friends did too," I protest, still giggling a little. "Is this a bad time?"

"It's never a bad time when I have idiots in my presence." Sherlock shook his phone in a sort of gesture for no. "Make them go away, John!"

"Sorry, I can't unless I see who they are." Sherlock flips his camera so I can see that there are several police officers in his flat, Lestrade and Anderson and Donovan being just a few.

"We knew he'd withhold the case," Lestrade says by way of explanation.

"You can't just break in!" I cross my arms over my chest.

"It's not a break-in, it's a drugs bust."

"This man a junkie? Have you met him?" Lestrade gives me a look as if to say I myself haven't. Which is correct, I've never met Sherlock in real life, but I still know him better than these people! I saw in him what I see in me, and you can't do that unless you know a person!

"John, please stop talking."

"You could search this flat all day, and find nothing considered 'recreational'!"

"John, you probably want to shut up now."

I pause and draw a question mark with my pointer finger. "No. You?"

"Shut up." New fact about Sher, he possibly did drugs at one point. Well, at least that explains some of the marks on his wrist.

"Damn I want to hug and smack you right now, you stupid, stupid man. Drugs? Really? God, there's a reason you have me!" I berate, making a few not-so-great hand gestures at the camera.

Sherlock doesn't speak for a while, probably shocked speechless. Good. Damn idiot needs to get his head out of his arse. "Er...We found Rachel," Lestrade pipes up, looking a bit white.

"Good, who is she?" Sher asks, voice still a little weird from my earlier statement.

"Jennifer Wilson's daughter."

"Find her, she has to be important."

"Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter."

Sher pauses. "Why would she write her daughter's name on the floor? Why?" He waves his hand in front of the screen. "Any ideas, John?"

"It could be a message on how to find her killer? Maybe the next victim or-"

"John, you are brilliant!" He draws the J with his pinky again. "To find the killer! The killer has her phone, and phones can be tracked! Lestrade, give me the email address on the case."

" .uk," he rattles off.

"And the password is..."

"Rachel," I say, trying to read the blurry laptop screen through the phone screen.

"So we can read her email, so what?" Anderson asks scathingly.

"Don't talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the IQ of everyone in the room," Sherlock replies. The email comes up, and a Find My Phone application as well. "GPS locator should give us our killer very soon."

A woman says from behind us, "There's a cab here waiting, Sherlock. You really need to go."

"No, I need to find the killer. He has to be somewhere!" Sher flips the camera back around. "John, I may need you to follow me where he goes. Still have that Sig Sauer?"

"Always, Sher."

"The killer is..." He pauses. "It says he's in the flat. How can that be?"

"Sherlock, the cab won't be waiting much longer," the woman repeats.

"Why would the phone be-" Sherlock muses and then cuts off. "I need to go."

"What?" I ask.

"I need to go, John." He speaks slowly. "There is something I have to take care of. I'll be back soon."

"Sher, you are not leaving me here!"

"Yes, John, I am. I found the phone."

* * *

 **I lied, this isn't the last chapter, it's the second to last. But enjoy it anyway! Read + review!**


	4. Last Call

I huff. That man will run off someday and get himself killed. Idiot. Mine.

I close the Skype application and open up a browser, entering the MePhone website. If Sherlock won't tell me where he's going, but he knows, then I'll just have to find him myself. "And the password is Rachel. Sher, you can't hide from me if you're in danger."

The Find My Phone section is on the right side of my laptop screen, so I click on it. A map of London loads for a few seconds, but then comes up with a blinking dot on the location of the phone. "It's moving," I whisper. "Maybe a cab?"

And then everything falls into place.

The killer abducted the victims in the middle of a crowd without anyone noticing. He then took them to places they weren't likely to go, explains the cab, and made them take the pills that killed them. A cab driver. That man from before, the gray-haired man with blue eyes that felt off, he's the one that's been killing those people.

He has Sherlock.

My mind blanks; I grab my gun, put on my jacket, and run out of my flat, carrying my mobile with me. I quickly pull up the same site and as it begins to track, I see where it's going. Although, that cabbie must really be an imbecile if he thinks Sherlock needs more schooling. I laugh, even though the situation really isn't funny.

I raise my hand up and shout, "Cab!" into the street. After about five minutes, one actually stops for me. I swear, and climb into it, telling the cabbie to make it fast.

I fidget horribly while the cab goes, tapping my fingers restlessly on the seat covers, my leg thumping up and down on the dirty carpeted floor. All I can think about is what Sherlock's going through. He wouldn't be scared, but what would he do when faced with death like that? Sher would probably laugh, I think. He might be happy to get out of here. The world hasn't treated him very well, after all.

Sher has seen just as many bad things as I have, and I can't let him go the way I was let go.

I check if my gun is loaded, making sure there's enough bullets to take people out. But there's only one bullet. One bullet is all I have. Could I do that? My aim really hasn't gotten rusty since I've been in Afghanistan. One bullet, though. No chance to make a mistake.

If it's for Sherlock, I could make it. I have to.

* * *

When the cab drops me off at the Further Education College, the cabbie asks me if I'm sure this is where I want to go. I tell him yes, and pay him double. He protests, but I'm already far away.

I break down the door to the left side of the building and run through the dark hallways, opening doors, looking through rooms. There are virtually no lights on, so I go down the middle of the corridors in order to not run into anything. I flash back to the darkest Afghan nights when our flashlights were the only illumination, and too often, they failed. We ran and shot and ran and shot and fell.

Once I search the entire first floor, I fly up the stairs, taking them four at a time. Seconds pass so slowly that every set of stairs feels like three. I break open more doors, search more empty rooms. "Sherlock!" I call. "Sherlock, where are you?"

He doesn't answer, so I start going through the rooms on the side of the building closest to the other half of the school. The first few are duds, but as I look through the next one, I see lights on. When I look through the window, I see two men on the other side of the school, facing each other. One of them has gray hair, and the other has pitch black curls, and is the closest to facing me. He doesn't see me, I know, but I still have a pretty good idea who it is.

Sherlock, because I'm pretty damn sure it's him, raises a pink and white pill to his mouth, the pill that all the other victims had ingested. The cabbie is going to kill him, I think numbly. Sherlock is going to be dead soon if I don't do something.

My thoughts stop right there. I only realize later that I pull my gun from my back pocket and fire the single bullet I have at the back of the man ready to kill Sherlock. The shot flies straight through two windowpanes, breaks the spinal cord and pushes through the aorta valve of the heart. I know exactly where it hit, I am a doctor. I've made that shot before. But as with the other shot, I run before the man hits the ground because I can't afford to stay.

Sherlock can't know that I killed someone for him. He's knows too much already without me adding to it. But more importantly, he can't know _why_ I killed that cabbie. The whys are often more telling than the action itself.

I love him. I love Sherlock after maybe eighteen hours of knowing him without seeing his face, and I can't tell him. He doesn't need that on top of everything else.

I know I'm a coward, and I also know that the truth always comes out, but for now, only the walls need to know. Only the building I screamed his name through needs to know what I did for him.

I leave the left side of the school building so that no one is the wiser. The Yard hasn't even been called yet. The streets are quiet, for now. I go four blocks away from the place before trying to hail another cab. John Watson, scared of what he's done. I laugh and the new cabbie looks at me like I'm crazy, but I am.

* * *

Months later, I find myself in the middle of a different case. Sherlock and I work together all the time now, chasing criminals, running from criminals, whichever. It doesn't matter to us. I still pine after him like a bloody teenager, and I wish he'd show me his real face, but he's just as stubborn as I am, perhaps more.

I feel that he doesn't like himself, and that's why he won't look at me. Which is absolute crap, of course, but I have no room to criticize him. I don't like myself that much either. But I like myself better when I'm with him.

"So, have you figured out the missile plans yet?" I ask Sherlock.

"I found them, if that's what you mean. The fiancée's brother did it." Sher waves at me through the camera. "How's your little date search coming?"

I sigh. "Is there anything just completely repulsive about me? The only person willing to date me is a lesbian barista who even admits I'm not her type at all. So what is it? Do I have a disgusting habit that no one's decided to mention to me? Am I way worse in bed than I thought? Do I give off the prat vibe or something? Why do people treat me like a one-night stand?"

"John, there is nothing remotely wrong with you," he replies simply.

"There has to be," I protest. "There are very few other explanations for my pathetic dating life."

"JOHN. Listen, and listen carefully, and repeat after me: you are perfect just the way you are."

"Sher, you are perfect just the way you are."

I can feel him rolling his eyes. "You missed the point entirely. If you aren't getting dates, it's because something is wrong with them, not you. Anyone in their right mind would jump on you and never let you go if they found you."

My mouth falls open. "You mean that? You really mean that?"

"I rarely speak without meaning it. Especially when it comes to you." His voice trails off into a quiet mumble towards the end of that sentence.

"Sher-" I start, but the doorbell rings. "Sorry, I'll be right back. Stay right there, please."

I rush to my door and unlock it, saying, "If you're selling something, I don't want it."

"Oh, Johnny boy, you want what I'm selling," a Irish-tinted, very creepy voice replies, putting a bag over my head.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm wearing my jacket, but underneath it is a great deal of Semtex. Shite. Just shite. I have a fucking bomb under my clothes. In my ear is a little transmitter. "Now, Johnny, you're going to say what I tell you to say or else you get blown up and your precious Sherlock gets a bullet to the head. Just like all the others. Got that?"

"Yeah," I say, cutting off all the other not-so-nice things I had in mind.

"Good. Time to put pretty little Sherly on the phone. You should be used to this by now." I nod, knowing he can't see me.

My mind goes into soldier mode for a few seconds. If Sherlock's going to get out alive, I need to play by the rules at least enough to fool who I now know as Moriarty. He and I and Sherlock are all going to be in this pool room, but I'm out of sight. Sher knows where my gun is, and he'll take it with him to meet Moriarty, so that man might end up dead. Good. Fucking bastard.

All I need to do is make sure Moriarty can't kill Sher. Stall, bide time. Make sure Sherlock has the chance to go in for a kill shot.

When Sherlock walks in, I can hear his footsteps echo on the ground. "Bet you didn't see this coming," I say, just loud enough so that he can hear me.

"John? John, where are you?"

"Everywhere, darling. Everywhere." He doesn't speak back. "I fooled you good and proper, didn't I?" I continue.

"You're not really John." Sher laughs, long and loud. "Oh, you may have tricked everyone else, but you'll never have me, James Moriarty!"

"Oh, I have you alright. Do you know how?" I ask, not knowing the answer. Jim doesn't give me all the lines at once.

"Please do enlighten me, dear Moriarty."

"John's just like all the others. And I hold the trigger," Jim sings, stepping from his hiding place. I stop receiving instructions.

"Oh, I know you do. But John isn't like all the others. You can't have him," Sherlock hisses.

"And whyever not? Did you foolishly think your pet would stay with you forever? Alive or dead?"

"Always. And I'll never leave him either."

Jim laughs. "I doubt that very much. Did you ever think you had the upper hand, Sherly? I'm wondering now with the way you talk about dear little Johnny."

"I've always had the upper hand, James Moriarty. And I always will." Sherlock then, in a series of movements that I could hear took barely a second, shot Jim.

A mere millisecond later, tens of shots fire toward the same central point. I hear police sirens from several cars come close to the building, and I have to get out of the spot Moriarty hid me in. I have to see if Sherlock's okay. He has to be. If he isn't, a lot more murders will be committed tonight.

I shove open the door, and go out to the catwalk above the pool. I see black curls and the body that goes with them under Moriarty's body, using it for a shield. The snipers are good shots, but they're too focused on what they're doing, I decide. I smile. So I can be useful.

I run at the first sniper quietly and punch him in the throat, immediately incapacitating him. I take his gun and begin shooting his evil sniper buddies. They fall like rocks, most of them. Only a couple are left when I'm finished; the Yard can take them. I sweep the catwalk more than once, making sure there are no more hostiles in the area. Finding none, I drop the gun and run down the metal steps to the main level. Everything's quiet now, and it kind of freaks me out.

I pull Moriarty off of Sherlock, paying attention to his vitals to reassure myself he's actually dead. He's certainly lost enough blood to be dead, though. Once I'm more calm, I turn to the other man and lose it again.

Sherlock is too beautiful for words. I can't even describe what it means to see him for the first time, only that I can't ever let him go.

I check him for gunshot wounds, but all I find is a large bump on the back of his head where he hit the side of the pool. "You'll be okay, Sher," I whisper. I hesitate for a moment, but press a kiss to his forehead anyway. "Goodbye."

I take the back exit out of the pool, weaving through the trees so that no one will find me. Maybe a kilometer from the pool, I reach a main street and stick my hand out for a cab. I curse my horrible luck in catching the damn things. If I could catch them as fast as Sherlock did, maybe I'd be at home, waiting for him to call. (Pathetic.) Not pathetic at all.

Debating my patheticness takes up enough of my brain space that I don't hear someone come up behind me and hug me. I try to get them off, but they just say, "John," and I stop.

"Sherlock."

"You shouldn't have left me back there. It was quite rude."

"I like being your guardian angel," I reply, smiling slightly.

"That's all well and good, but can you be my guardian angel and live at my flat with me and date me? I'd like that very much." Sher sounds so shy and unsure of himself. How can I resist him like that?

"Yeah. I like you better when I can see you anyway." I turn in his arms and kiss him properly, on the lips. "Come on. Let's go home."

 **End**


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